I’ve stumbled in and out of memories of you like a rebel child failing to leave well enough alone only to get caught in a labyrinth of distractions; even pretending you’re still here- speaking in your distinctive accented voice until the silence overcomes and harshly reminds me that you’re gone. Then that clinically cold and eerie feeling of realization comes to life but reluctance lingers for a bit as I sit alone like a shadow at night and slowly return to my self-awareness.It can be hard to evade the fragments of another when it’s all you have left to slip under like a favorite blanket, despite how many torn fringes and holes time has bestowed it. Still avoiding in asking that ominous question; what will become of me if this aging blanket is ever…lost?  

Poet of the Light © 2018    

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